


Plaything

by onesec



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Car Sex, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Dubious Science, M/M, Non-Human Genitalia, Overstimulation, dubious everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 05:32:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15812418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onesec/pseuds/onesec
Summary: Hank shimmies his jeans and boxers past his knees. He's trying not to touch Connor, but this is difficult as the backseat is small and he is larger than the average man. “You really want this?” he says, tucking the bottom of his shirt out of the way.Connor gives this some assessment. They are two miles down an asphalt lane in a defunct industrial park. The decrepit, rubble-strewn yard Hank has chosen is as remote as the surface of the moon. Hank's revolver is in its holster, hanging from his open belt. “I only act in accordance with your best interests," says Connor eventually.





	Plaything

Hank pulls into a spot that’s out of the light, the body of the car creaking as it's buffeted by the frigid wind coming off the waterfront. Hank shunts it into park and stalls the engine, and in the same movement he unbuttons his fly. “Would you,” he begins, then shakes his head.

At first, Connor doesn’t comprehend what Hank is asking him. He was never good with subtleties. “Lieutenant?”

Hank is unreadable, his hair hanging in his face. “I, I, I’m not looking for-- I just need--”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” says Connor tactfully.

“I’m sober,” Hank interjects. His voice is rough, but steady. “I’m the soberest I’ve ever been in my fucking life.”

Connor looks straight ahead. “I know.”

Dawn is a long way off. The world outside is an incipient black. 

 

Hank instructs him to go sit in the backseat of the car. “Take off your pants,” he adds gruffly. “And your shoes, too.” Connor does so, stowing them neatly on the parcel shelf. Hank drops his keys in his haste to get back inside the car. He glances around before ducking into the backseat and shutting the door behind him.

There are a few tense seconds as the driving lamp ticks over. It dims, then dies, and then there is nothing but distant floodlights and rushing sleet. Hank shimmies his jeans and boxers past his knees. He's trying not to touch Connor, but this is difficult as the backseat is small and he is larger than the average man. “You really want this?” he says, tucking the bottom of his shirt out of the way.

Connor gives it some assessment. They are two miles down an asphalt lane in a defunct industrial park. The decrepit, rubble-strewn yard Hank has chosen is as remote as the surface of the moon. Hank's revolver is in its holster, hanging from his open belt. “I only act in accordance with your best interests," says Connor eventually.

“So is that a ‘yes’?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.” Hank hesitates, then peels down Connor’s briefs. Connor obligingly lifts his legs so that Hank can slip them off. Hank drops the briefs into the footwell and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His penis is fully erect, standing slightly away from his body. He is already sweating excessively in the airless heat of the car.

Connor intercedes. “Would you prefer to do this lying down?”

“Actually--" Hank clears his throat, and looks away. "I can’t usually keep it up when I’m, uh, when I’m on my back.” Low confidence and an unhealthy lifestyle can amount to poor sexual performance. It’s to be expected. They need to be economical with their time. And Connor is nothing if not economical. He turns around carefully and settles on his stomach, an invitation. He wants Hank to feel at ease. He has no genitalia, nor pubic hair. Androids have few superfluous traits.

Hank is quiet for a moment. He is masturbating. Connor can hear it, can see him doing it, reflected faintly in the rear window. “Can I touch you?” Hank asks after a while.

“If you like, Lieutenant.”

Hank reaches between Connor’s legs and tentatively strokes his groin. It fits easily in the palm of his hand. He teases a line down its middle, then along the seam where it meets his inner thighs. “Feel that?”

“Yes.”

Hank's hand ventures further upward, lingering at the cusp of his tailbone. “What’s this?”

“A waste duct.” Connor senses Hank’s fingertips, the uneven edges of his bitten fingernails, tracing its entrance.

Hank scoffs. “A  _waste duct_.”

“Any contaminants that I ingest are broken down in the tract and excreted as sterile matter.”

The car springs creak. Hank is moving closer, getting bolder. “What happens if I…?” He circles the sphincter with his index finger.

“I don’t know.”

Hank clicks his tongue, incredulous. "Then what am I supposed to do with you?”

“What would you like to do with me?” says Connor recklessly, wanting to please. The waste duct is not intended for penetrative intercourse. It is a delicate instrument. It sits tightly against the curve of his sacrum, its inner walls laced with tiny, fibrous sensors. Each tactel is the width of a human hair.

Without warning, Hank sinks a finger inside of it. “It’s wet,” he observes.

“Harmless,” says Connor quickly. “Antibacterial.” Hank is rubbing the sensor array inside the opening. That alone is almost unbearable, the sensation seething, oily, hot.  _Attention: Foreign contaminant._

“Anti-bac? Figures. It tingles.” Hank thrusts his finger a little more. “You’re sensitive, huh.”

Connor swallows. “I have to be.”

Drawing himself up, Hank hooks his thumb into the duct’s narrow entrance, then slides the head of his penis in alongside it. It's blunt and shocking. The tract is moderately elastic, but in its idle state it is only six millimeters in diameter. The seat’s upholstery pops beneath Connor’s nails. He can feel Hank’s round stomach resting on his lower back, and his elevated pulse inside him.

Hank proves to be out of practice.  He braces himself on the car’s ceiling, then the driver’s seat, searching for leverage. His penis probes and withdraws erratically, tugging at the soft, furrowed walls of the tract, catching and stimulating as it goes. When the angle shifts he moans-- a stifled, guttural sound, raw with effort. Connor grasps the cold plastic of the passenger door pull and tries not to break it in half.

So this is what sex is.

Sex isn't sea salt and snow grains on Connor's tongue. It isn't a simulated homicide, trace seminal fluid amongst carpet fibers.  _The suspect's motive was sexual._

Sex is Hank's penis, engorged with blood and marbled with black-ish veins.

Sex is bloated, torturous friction, sensors firing in hundreds of incendiary clusters, their residuum building one moment and diminishing the next.

Connor sags, his left leg losing power. One of his femoral conduits has been partially disconnected; Hank’s girth has displaced it. The curve of Hank’s shaft is exerting pressure on his subrapubic region, smothering the wires there. Hank yanks him back onto the seat, and further onto his penis. The tract is trying to push him out. Connor squirms, grasping at Hank’s sleeve, then the hand anchored to his naked hip. The world is no longer the paranoid darkness of the yard nor the dirty snow drifts, it   i s

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nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

 

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_Restarting…_

_Restarting…_

_Restarting…_

 

_Core temperature: Thirty seven point five degrees celsius._

_Inertial sensors: Stable._

_Tactile systems: Stabilizing._

_Cameras: Operational._

_Microphones: Operational._

_F/T sensors:_

_Left arm: Operational._

_Right arm: Operational._

_Left leg: Operational._

_Right leg: Compromised._

_Angular encoders: 95% operational._

 

Connor reboots, and finds that he has been turned over. His head has fallen limply to one side. Hank is on top of him, thrusting. He lurches to a halt when Connor takes a breath, dragging a guilty hand over his red face. “Shit. I thought you were fuckin’ broken.”

Connor perceives that his shirt has been undone. “I’m fine, Lieutenant. But thank you for your concern.”

Hank grunts in assent and starts thrusting again. The tract resumes peristalsis, gripping Hank's penis in mind-numbing waves. The tremors have stopped, but this is only another trough before the next crest, and Connor can't predict where it'll take him.

Hank, being human, is at his limit. His movements become increasingly sloppy and desperate. The head of his penis is threatening to breach the neck of the tract; any deeper and he’ll be inside Connor’s abdomen. “Gonna come,” he grunts. “ _Fuck_." He thrusts viciously, once, twice, then crumples, crushing Connor with his dead weight. Connor doesn't feel him ejaculate, only a warm, liquid sensation as his own climax dips and climbs. Human sex is primordial. Connor tastes seminal fluid and the breeze in Amanda's garden. 

“Atta boy." Hank pats Connor heavily on the head like a dog. Connor exhales. An oozing shiver rakes through him, making his teeth chatter. Sensory errors have permeated his entire system. His surroundings are rendered in such explicit detail; his back pinned against a sticky leather seat while every pore, every follicle sucks up the sensual world like a lightning rod. Connor is being scoured by Hank’s sweat, his breath, even the fine vellus hair that covers his skin. His motors grind audibly as he forces his palms upward into Hank’s chest. Hank shoves his arms away. “Okay," he mutters, rubbing where Connor just touched him. "It’s okay. Just let me pull out.” Connor twitches as he slips free, and Hank hauls himself over to the other side of the car. Connor relaxes, flexing his joints. His waste duct comes back with a reading of pH 7. The tract is slowly returning to normal size, squeezing out Hank’s semen. A blob of it slides onto the car seat.

"I fucked you up, huh," says Hank. He tugs his soft penis a few times, then loses interest and pulls his jeans back on. He shoulders between the front seats and opens the glove compartment. He returns with several dried out wet wipes, and, strangely, a packet of chewing gum. He pops one of the lozenges in his mouth, crushing its shell brusquely between his teeth. “Thirstier than a motherfucker," he says thickly. He proceeds to wipe Connor and the seat down in a businesslike fashion, then cracks the window wide enough to throw the used wipes out of the car.

"Lieutenant," says Connor sternly.

"What?" Hank is indifferent. "Get dressed."

Connor does his best. He manages to sit up, but his left leg won't cooperate.

Hank helps him with his tie. "If anyone asks-- you got jumped, alright?"

Connor language software draws a blank. "'Jumped'?"

"Like, attacked." Hank shrugs cartoonishly. "I dunno!" He tightens the knot with a sharp tug. Connor wants to adjust it, but doesn't want to disrespect Hank's handiwork.

"I'm sorry Lieutenant, but that story sounds ill-conceived. What are the 'facts'? I'll need a credible alibi."

“Can’t you just say ‘yes’ to things?" Hank snaps back. "It pisses me off.”

Connor shuts his mouth, sensing his usefulness has been downgraded. He feels small, though he knows that that is physically impossible.

 

 

"I miscalculated the height of the balcony. I jumped off of it without due consideration for my own safety, or that of my partner." 

Connor tells the lie very well. Fowler signs off the paperwork without even reading it. He addresses Hank, not Connor, whenever he has a question. "Put it on a leash next time," he says forbiddingly. They're off the hook.

"That's what you get," says Hank, leaning casually on the back of Connor's chair. "For runnin' around like a jackass." His knuckle is digging into the space between Connor's shoulder blades.

Connor presses his lips together.

_> "Fuck you."_

_Incorrect. Unprofessional. Likelihood of unfavorable outcome: 95%._

_> "I'm sorry, Lieutenant."_

_Conciliatory. May appear disingenuous._

_> "Yes, Lieutenant."_

_Conciliatory. Neutral._

"Yes, Lieutenant." He shivers minutely. Sex means Hank, an interrogation room, this metal chair.

Hank lets himself out of Fowler's office, smirking and oblivious. Connor follows, like a good android.

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to read something about how Connor would handle feelings that are intensely pleasurable, being an android with 'biocomponents'. Sadly my own attempt at the idea ran away from me a bit and turned out more creepy than I intended.  
> I think that in this fic Connor is supposed to be, like, a baby machine!Connor. There's some humanity in there somewhere. Hank just turned into a dickhead. As much as I like soft papa Hank, I couldn't write soft papa Hank...  
> I'll write something nice and fluffy next time, if I'm not banished from the fandom.  
> Thanks for reading. :)


End file.
